


stress relief

by Athina_Blaine



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Bondage, Dubious Consent, Kink Meme, M/M, Mind/Mood Altering Substances, Pre-Relationship, Tentacles, athina goes feral
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-06-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:01:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24490237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Athina_Blaine/pseuds/Athina_Blaine
Summary: Martin's just been feeling a little worked up lately, okay? The summer heat must be getting to him ...
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 11
Kudos: 276





	stress relief

“You had better have a good explanation for yourself.”

“Uh …”

Jon held up Martin’s report on the Mansell case, which he had turned in earlier that day. Martin’s stomach sank. Oh, yes. That.

“This is _embarrassing_ ,” said Jon. With a flurried movement, he flipped through the pages. “Spelling errors, entire paragraphs missing, and, right here, you mix up the names of every family member involved in the event. Who is Mr. Jones even supposed to be?”

In Martin’s defense, Mr. O’Connor just _felt_ like a Mr. Jones. He got the feeling Jon wouldn’t appreciate that explanation, however, what with the way his cold eyes were burning holes through him. It reminded him far too much of the early days, and the words twisted up in his chest.

“Sorry,” Martin said, mostly just to say something.

“You’ve been performing appallingly these last few weeks. You’re distracted, irritable, and your reports—” Jon dramatically shook the paper, again, in case Martin had forgotten “—have been abhorrent. What’s gotten into you?”

Martin's face warmed, and he hoped it wasn’t obvious. Jon _definitely_ wouldn’t appreciate _that_ explanation. He scrubbed the back of his neck.

“I’ve just been stressed out, I guess. Haven’t been sleeping well.”

For just a moment, a sliver of sympathy broke through Jon’s expression, but it quickly cooled again.

“Whatever it is, figure it out. I won't tolerate it.”

Jon turned to the other papers on his desk.

Dismissed.

Martin sighed and left. It had been a long time since Jon had chewed him out that badly. _Figure it out_. Of course, why hadn’t _Martin_ thought of that?

Martin flopped onto his desk chair with a sigh, lowering his head into his hands.

No, that wasn't fair. It wasn’t his fault Martin was losing sleep because his dreams were brimming with vague, chaotic images of Jon’s scarred hands, his wild hair, his smile, his voice. It was no one’s fault but Martin’s, and _nobody_ wanted to fix it more than him.

It was almost indescribable how much he hated having to go through his day with this persistent heat crawling underneath his skin, consuming his attention whenever someone was talking and making him stare at his blinking cursor for hours.

He tried ignoring it and that just made it worse, as it always seemed to snowball right on top of his head when it was most inconvenient for him (such as when he was going over case files with Jon). He tried burning through it with some porn, but none of it got him properly worked up (save for when the actors resembled Jon, as if he wasn't embarrassed enough).

One night, at 3 AM, curled under the sheets of his bed, he finally gave in and masturbated as he chased after the dreams, but that just left him a confused and guilty mess, and he still hadn’t been satisfied.

Martin took the tube home that day, the frustrated buzz building with every bump to his elbow and trod on his foot. Under the unbearable humidity, a light sheen of sweat broke out on his forehead, and when he reached his stop and stood to leave, he was nearly shoved right off his feet by other passengers eager to get home.

It was all getting to be just a little too much.

When he got home, he stripped out of his vest and kicked off his trousers until he was in only his t-shirt and pants. Lying down on his old couch, he flipped on the TV, beginning to calm as his body cooled down. Perhaps it was all just a touch of summer madness? But that would mean Martin would be suffering this skin crawling itch until well into October, and that was a terrifying thought.

Dinner was a cup of oversalty ramen. It had been a while since he had made a proper meal, but he’s just hasn’t been able to summon his usual zeal for cooking lately. Cleaning up and flipping off the lights, he climbed into bed. It was early, but he didn’t care. He just wanted to get some rest.

Rolling onto his side, he closed his eyes. A drop of something wet hit his face and his eyes snapped open.

Right above his head was a crack in the ceiling, dripping water directly onto his forehead.

Perfect.

 _Now_ he was going to have to call the bloody landlord, who was reticent even on a good day. What the hell was couple upstairs playing at, anyway?

With a sigh, he rolled out of bed and laid a towel underneath the spot before flopping onto his back on the other side, which wasn’t as soft and didn’t smell as nice.

Whatever. This may as well happen.

The water splashed harmlessly onto the towel. He drifted away.

The dreams followed a similar pattern each night. There was Jon, and Jon was kissing him. Sometimes they would be in the Institute, sometimes they would be in Martin’s bed, Jon pressing him into the mattress, working Martin into a state of flustered excitement. Then, Martin would wake up, unhappy and deeply frustrated.

Tonight was shaping up to be no different.

They were on the cot in the backroom of the Institute, and Jon’s chest was flush against Martin’s back as he wrapped his arms around him in a tight grip. He kissed him just under Martin’s ear, whispering, and Martin shivered. His hand slid down Martin’s front, toying with his belt, and then …

… and then Martin was back in his own bed, alone. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to hold onto the tantalizing details of the dream. They slid away from him, though, like sand slipping through his fingers. It must have been 1 AM by that point, and he groaned.

Why was his brain doing this to him? Either _finish_ or piss off. Make a decision, _fuck._

Strangely enough, the pressure around his body hadn’t faded away with the dream. Something was wrapped around his arms, but that couldn’t be possible, because he was awake now, right? His eyes fluttered open, swiveling around the room before landing on the ceiling.

He froze.

From the leak where the water had dripped down, a base of pulsing, black tendrils, no thicker than his wrist, twisted out and downwards until one snaked through his bedsheets and was currently in the process of coiling around his upper body like a spring. Martin gasped, and the sudden movement seemed to startle the thing, as it paused in its ascent.

There was a momentary standoff. Maybe if Martin stayed completely still, it would lose interest and leave him alone. But with an abrupt jerk, it continued slithering at a pace even faster than before and, okay, time to panic, time to _panic, no no no no!_

He twisted around, but its grip was too tight, and he sucked in a breath to yell, but it looped around his throat and choked the sound off. It continued to slide across his jaw, trailing a warm, tingling fluid in its wake, and pressed the flat of its tip against his mouth.

He tilted his head away, squeezing his lips together, but it followed. A sudden, peppery scent effused his nose, making him woozy, and he struggled not to breath it in.

The coils around his body tightened, crushing his rips together, and he gasped, and the tendril sank into his mouth.

What a dirty trick.

A thick, viscous liquid seeped from the tendril, spicy, almost like cinnamon. It spilled down his throat and he was unable to resist swallowing it down. The coils around him loosened their grip, just enough that he could steadily breathe in the fragrance, where it rushed up his nose and stuffed his head with cotton.

The tendril sat heavy on his tongue and, in a bout of morbid curiosity, he sucked on it, and the lightheadedness swelled until everything else slipped into a dulled blur. It continued to feed him until his stomach sat warm and heavy, a pleasant ache spreading from the top of his head to the tips of his toes.

Another tendril snaked along his lower belly, and Martin jolted when it touched the hot, wet slit of his cock. Where had his pants gone? When had he gotten so _hard?_ He squirmed, but the mortification only made his stomach curl tighter with a sharp heat. The tip of his cock pulsed a thin stream of precum and he sucked in a sharp breath through his nose, only making himself dizzier.

The tendril continued to slowly circle his slit, the sticky liquid dripping a small puddle over his navel. He writhed, desperate to both arch into the touch and shy away from it, until his hips rolled at a confused, anxious pace, set entirely to the will to the creature manipulating his body into a delirious frenzy.

His orgasm hit him with such fierce suddenness that he would have been embarrassed if his head weren’t so full with the smell of spice and his own arousal. The tendril retracted from his lips with a wet plop, fluid trickling out the corner of his mouth. He coughed, hair drenched with sweat.

The tendrils gently caressed the flushed skin of his chest as he twisted around in it's grip. He shivered, both too cold and far too hot, before his heartbeat slowly returned to normal. His head was spinning, and he eyed various parts of the room, unsure of what he was even looking for.

Then, a tendril touched the skin of his thigh where it met his groin, sliding further inwards, and he stiffened. His limbs were still burning with oversensitivity.

In a show of sudden impatience, the creature jerked him upwards, eliciting a yelp, until his legs dangled over his chest. Blood filled his face from both gravity forcing it down and the ever-arousing humiliation of being so obscenely exposed.

Circling the rim of his entrance, a tendril massaged the oozing, warm fluid into his tense body, until it could sink it and out of him with slippery ease. Heat coursed through him in slow, pulsing waves, and the tendrils stroked the sensitive skin of his inner thighs until he couldn’t help but allow his trembling legs to fall further apart.

The tendril pushed inside him with one smooth, corkscrewing motion and he hissed. It didn’t give him time to adjust, however, curling in and out with steady, powerful thrusts, and Martin wanted to hide his head in his hands at the wet, sucking sound of it plunging into his loosened body. His hole spasmed, both pained by the intrusion and attempting to pull it deeper inside of him.

He’s never been so full before, fit to bursting, and it _hurt_ , but the tendril undulated against his prostate, relentless in its precision, and the sharp pain mingled with the intoxicating pressure building deep in his belly. His cock began swelling again, despite having been so recently spent.

Snaking around his leg, another tendril caressed the delicate skin of his strained rim, scooping up the escaping liquid and pressing it back in, before coiling around the larger tendril and pushing inside. His eyes rolled back, unable to either arch up or pull away, the tendrils wrapped around him squeezing as each coil caught the edges of his already overstretched hole. He moaned, a drizzle of semen leaking out of his cock and splattering onto his chin.

The small noise seemed to draw the creature’s attention as another tendril slid over his chin, slipping back into his mouth with little resistance. It forced his mouth open wider than it had before, filling him far past the point of comfort. His jaw ached, his throat swallowing down the fluid in sluggish, eager squeezes. The tendril pulled back, smearing a thrilling mix of saliva and its liquid over his swollen lips, before sinking inside again until he choked on it, secretions drippling out of his mouth and staining the bedsheets.

The tendrils worked in tandem, moving in and out of him at a steady, deliberate rhythm. His body swayed back and forth under the force of it, his legs cramping and head faint from being upside down for so long. Another orgasm was building inside of him, distant at first, until it burned so hot that tears formed in his eyes.

The creature maintained its unhurried pace, apathetic as he writhed and moaned in agony. It would work him at its leisure, until it reached its own unknown point of satisfaction, and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.

A tendril, no bigger than his pinky finger, wound around his cock in one elegant, smooth motion. It gripped him lightly at an erratic speed, oblivious of the tempo set by the larger tendrils, until Martin hovered at the starburst edge, past the point of no return, but not allowed to go any further.

Then, it started to squeeze in long, rippling pulses from root to tip, and it wasn’t much longer before Martin spent all over his stomach with deep, lurching gasps, the tendrils maintaining their tight grip around his white-hot, surging body.

Slowly, they disentangled themselves from him, sliding out with a messy pop and he winced, fluid oozing out of his overstuffed hole. He dropped down on the bed with an unceremonious flop and darkness consumed him.

Martin snapped awake, heart pounding. Sunlight poured through the curtains.

How long had he been out?

Scrambling across his bed, he scooped up his phone on the nightstand. _6:23 AM._ He still had another forty minutes before his alarm went off.

So, why did it feel like he had slept through the entire day?

He lifted his duvet and found that his pants were still on, and then wondered why they wouldn’t have been on in the first place. What had he dreamed about last night? It had been startling, that was for certain, but the details slid further and further away from him until they were beyond reach.

He looked up. The crack in the ceiling had vanished. Wait, had there been a crack in the ceiling? He had set out a towel, but it was dry. Why would he have done that if there hadn’t been a leak? What an irrational thing for him to do.

He found himself strangely unconcerned with it all, though.

Rolling out of bed, he threw his hands over his head and stretched, relief seeping deep into his bones. He was well-rested, of all things, moreso than even before the frustrating dreams had started.

Had he done something differently? He couldn't remember?

Well, there was no use looking a gift horse in the mouth. Best enjoy this relief while he had it. In the meantime, he was already up, and, you know, he could really go for some pancakes right about then.

The tube ride was unremarkable, and Martin got through the stack of papers on his desk with uncharacteristic focus. He was so efficient, in fact, that he when he wrapped things up, he decided to go back and fix his reports from the previous few days, mouth twisting as he reviewed the Mansell case. No wonder Jon had been so angry. He had misspelled Aubrey Mansell’s first name at least four different ways.

He didn’t seek Jon out, but he wasn’t particularly avoiding him either. So, when Martin ran into him on his way to the breakroom, it was a pleasant surprise.

“Morning,” he said with a little wave. Jon's eyes widened. “I was on my way to get some tea. Do you want some?”

“I, uh—” Jon ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah, thanks.”

“Of course. Oh, by the way, I went back over the Mansell case, and, uh, yeah," Martin scratched his jaw, face flushing, "it was pretty bad. I’ll have a proper write up on your desk by the end of the day.”

“Actually, I wanted to talk to you about that,” Jon said, fingers brushing Martin’s sleeve just as he was leaving. Martin slowed. Jon snapped his hand to his arm, as if embarrassed by the movement. “You clearly weren’t in your right mind and instead of trying to figure out what was wrong, I yelled at you. You didn’t deserve that.” He cleared his throat. "I’m sorry.”

Martin blinked, stunned. An apology? From _Jon?_ Jon was apologizing to him? To _Martin?_

Jon's face reddened, likely in reaction to Martin’s gob smacked expression. Pulling himself together, Martin held up his hands.

“It’s fine. You were right about everything anyway, and,” he lowered his voice, “I know you’ve been dealing with a lot, lately.”

That just seemed to make Jon more upset, his hands squeezing into fists. “I shouldn’t be taking it out on you.”

“It’s fine, Jon. Really.” Desperate to shake that glum look in Jon’s eyes, he continued, “You know, I’m actually feeling much better today.”

Jon lowered his hand, eyes jumping up and down his body, and it was a true testament to whatever had him in such a good mood that he didn’t immediately dissolve into a nervous, flustered mess.

“Yes,” Jon said. “You do look much better.” Nodding slightly, he tucked his hands in his pockets. “I should be getting back to work.”

Martin was about to let them both go, but as Jon turned, he found himself captivated by the light as it hit the shadows under Jon’s eyes and his premature greying hair. Before he could stop himself, he said,

“Actually, do you want to get some coffee later?”

Jon paused, and Martin’s heart thundered in his chest.

“Coffee?”

_Shit!_

“Yeah.” Oh, god, how could he have just _said_ that? “It’s just, you look like you’ve been pretty stressed out, too? If you wanted to take a break, um, with me …” Wrap it up, wrap it up, _wrap it up_. “I know this really nice place off the corner of the Albert bridge.”

Jon stared at him, but Martin stood firm.

Well. The words were out. No going back. He just wished it didn’t feel like Jon’s eyes were looking right into his head.

Then, some of the tension left Jon’s shoulders. He smiled, and Martin’s chest lurched.

“Yes. I think that sounds a little perfect, actually.”

“Excellent.” Martin snapped a pair of finger guns, like an _idiot_. In his shame, he initiated a swift retreat, calling over his shoulder, “I’ll swing by your office at lunch?”

Jon waved. “Yeah, see you then”

Martin walked away, buzzing with the ecstasy of Jon’s _yes_ ringing in his ears.

**Author's Note:**

> athina  
>  _Just now_  
>  1 like and I’ll write Martin getting tentafucked  
> Like Comment Share  
> ♡athina liked this
> 
> athina  
> ➥say no more  
> 


End file.
